


Check Off My Happiness

by indi_indecisive



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, Makeup Sex, Near Death Experiences, Shower Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-02
Updated: 2017-05-02
Packaged: 2018-10-27 02:46:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10800093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indi_indecisive/pseuds/indi_indecisive
Summary: Written for a friend on tumblr. Find me @ angrybeardedmen or txghut





	Check Off My Happiness

They piece themselves together like sutures and fractured bones. They piece themselves together with coping mechanisms that vary like the thickness in a needle and the strength of a casting; suitable for only short moments, for the brief seconds while their drinks keep cold and the length of music as it continues to beat from outdated system -- only considered outdated from the newest design, the equipment less than a year old. Each night a gentle stitch, a wrap around the arm, eyes slip closed and fingers dance along skin; always cautious, always testing, slow was the touch but heavy was the hand. Harmful hands with thick fingers that could curl around a throat and crush a windpipe, an action that becomes less than an afterthought in war, and even now it’s a miracle that harmful hands turn to heavy, sun scorched palms and gentle, considerate touches. 

He knows. He thinks, doesn’t want to acknowledge it. While fingers run across his chest, small hands and smaller fingers with a less delicate touch rub away the stench of war and and oil with soap meant for war-- flaky, hardly any suds, smells like soap and nothing else. Moments alone in the shower, shoulders wracking with pain, he hands his head beneath the shower head and stares down at the water. The abyss edges its way to the drain, a slow sludge despite the push of clear water, a tinge of pink streaks its way down his legs and rushes to greet his eyes; even as a healer he is not so far from war, eyes slip shut and he can recall the moment, fear rises in his throat like a vicious bile and even now in the safety of the shower he can feel the splicer jumping on his back. Metal on then in his skin, a cut to his side no less than an inch deep, but it stands as nothing but a scratch to the wounds of his fellows. 

His fingers go back to working, to scrubbing away the aftermath of a war he will say he’s proud to be apart of-- for the people, at least. Can’t speak for ulterior motives, tongue and mind couldn’t wrap themselves around the words so easily, he scratches behind his ears and shivers at the grit that’s collected there, he can’t claim himself a fighter but he’s … he’ll be a fighter, if he must. 

He thinks especially now he must.

A sob escapes his lips, water rolls down his chest as he tilts his head back and lets the ever fleeting warm water roll across his face, to hide the tears he sheds. To avoid looking at the water slowly turning clearer. He washes it away, but the memory remains. Can’t scrub the mind, he presses his hands to his cheeks, fingers dig into the flesh and pulls it down; a lament towards agony, towards the things he had not wanted to process, towards the loss of heavy hands against his frame. He breathes, the water rushes into his lungs, has him throwing himself against the wall, palms pressed against the cold tile -- something to wonder as to how the tile never warms, even as the puffs of steam turn the room blind in a dense, thick smog. Cold, so cold. He hacks up the water, shoulders shaking, legs shaking, his entire body shakes in equal parts emotional torment and physical pain. 

How was he to manage? 

There were reasons why he did not sign for a position that placed him in the eyes of the enemy, omnic or human, as someone to be taken out quickly. As support, a healer, attention drew to him, but the sounds of buckshot's and metallic screams always pulled attention away enough for him to escape when he could not; even when he could, Lúcio had grown accustomed to the sound of buckshot's drawing attention, he had even began expecting it whenever he found himself cornered to the point his sonic amplifier became a secondary defense. Spittle dribbles down his chin, by now the water has gone cold, raises goosebumps along his flesh. Cold rivulets roll down his back, across his buttocks, down his calves and heels to swirl helpless with soap flakes into the drain. He can not force himself to turn the water off, can not think ahead to the gentle scolding of wasting water, he couldn’t think of anything but the mass of lifeless meat laying before him on an open expanse of desert sand.

A hulking, bleeding figure in the sand. Oranges and reds mix together, the setting sun as their battle ended, the dramatics of a perfect moment laid out before Lúcio-- all before he had seen his corpse, all before he collapsed to his knees with small hands pressed against a larger body, desperately seeking a pulse and finding none. The crane of his neck, the burn of hot sand against his knees, the way he fights against his own team to be taken back: ‘Let go of me!’ he yells, throws himself, wills himself to move quicker and break free of the hands pulling him back, ‘Hog!’ he screeches, he is more banshee than a man. Then, he hadn’t cried, the desert had taken all his tears before they could well in his eyes and roll down his cheeks. ‘Hog!’ even now he can hear himself screeching, knows he isn’t in the hot desert -- the cold water across his back can attest to the fact he was elsewhere -- but he can’t help it. Palms press flat against his ears, fingers digging into the side of his head.

He had abandoned him. Left him. He was his healer and they let him leave behind a -- a whatever Roadhog had been to him. 

Abandonment. Isn’t that what he was doing with everything? His music. Had he not abandoned it for this, and if he dared to turn his back on the people it would be total disgrace, the very thought made him want to retch. Death was near a formality in war, he knew it, but that doesn’t mean he had gripped it tight in his fingers and allowed himself to accept it. Death seemed to hang close to the enemy, with each amplified blast of omics to the abyss of snowy mountains, or the splintering of metallic skulls into shrapnel at the whole hog, death did not seem like it was capable of touching them. Injury, pain, loss, suffering, but never had death laid her gentle hands over his eyes and with the other rip away what he loved. Yes, love. Lúcio’s lips pull tight, chews on the inside of his cheeks and rips away dead flesh, balls it in his tongue until it becomes a pile of warm texture then swallows it hard. 

Roadhog is a mantra in his mind, his fingers dig between the tiles of the wall and he struggles to act; anything to release the tension of his chest, shoulders shaking, deep breaths, he can’t do it. His arms all limp to his side, realizing now how terrible his body was shaking underneath the torrent of icy water, the tips of fingers and toes numb. Clenches his first, curls his toes, yet still he doesn’t make a move to turn the water off. A form of self punishment for scrubbing it away. 

Too many aspects of himself yearned to apologize, too self absorbed in calamities of loss that he does not notice-- can not recognize the heavy trudge of bare feet that stop outside his stall, not the scratch of metal rungs, the squawking turn of a shower being turned off. Doesn’t acknowledge the cold shiver along his spine, palms still pressed against his ears, fingers still biting into the side of his skull even know he thinks he can feel those heavy hands against his hips, thick fingers rubbing circles against his flesh. Eyes open, a shaky body steadily lowers his hands, coming to lay across the larger ones at either side of him. His breath catches, ripping himself free of the heavy handed hold too quickly, where nails catch along his skin and scrape hot lines, jamming his heels into the tile below to turn and stare wide eyed up at the dead man. The dead man who was a lot less dead than Lúcio had seen him spread out in the hot sand, red and black mixed together in tight clumps. 

The dead man stands before him, large and imposing, shoulders sunk in one themselves in an uncomfortable position as silent pleas-- and even a silent apology. Less dead, tears well in Lúcio’s eyes and he can not fathom words to say, mouth agape like a fish, opening and closing until a large thumb presses against them to keep them closed. Roadhog was alive, not even worse for wear, too perfect to even compare the lifeless state in the desert sands as being Roadhog. His hand comes up, small fingers resting against the large wrist, and Roadhog’s thumb presses against Lúcio’s closed lips his other fingers curl around his chin and cheek, cradling his head. Lúcio wants to curl against his chest and stomach, to close his eyes and wrap his arms around the mass of Roadhog. He’s shaking again, shaking so much that even Roadhog’s hand cupping his face, and the hand at his hip isn’t enough to steady him; none of it is enough, he crawls into his arms like second nature. Wraps himself around the warm mass of a man and buries his face into the crook of his neck, presses his lips against his skin, counts each kiss in his head and digs his fingers into the other's shoulders. 

Those heavy hands, heavy hands that can curl and crush a throat like it’s an afterthought, find their way to rest at the dip of his back. Those heavy hands touch the expanse of his skin, calloused palms roll over his buttock, a moment paused to give a quick squeeze; Lúcio moans soft against his ear, with his nose he brushes aside hair, catches the other’s earlobe between his teeth and pulls down. Roadhog kneads his buttock, rough palms rolling over soft flesh; Lúcio’s wet body ruts against the others, slowly being warmed, the slow rolls of his hips against Roadhog’s stomach that urges him to sit against the shower floor. Grunts, more attributed to the instant nibble and pull of his earlobe, large palms and thick fingers keep hold of Lúcio’s ass as he shifts to the floor; laying onto his back, feet planted firmly against the tile, toes curl and he feels the scrape of the drain against his big toe. All of that was ignored in favor of the soft ass against his palms, the shifting weight as Lúcio shifts forward. Thighs on each side of Roadhog’s head. from the corner of his eyes he can see how they quiver, and he wants to pull his arms back and run his fingers along them; instead his heavy handed touch runs up and down Lúcio’s back, tracing his spine, committing his skin to memory by touch alone. 

Lúcio presses against his lips, it is like clockwork that Roadhog’s tongue, a broad and thick piece of pink muscle, escapes between his lips; a slow, long lick between the others folds. Lúcio shudders, Roadhog gives another lick, teasingly circles the tip of his tongue around his labia; Lúcio’s head rolls back, catches his bottom lip between his teeth, let’s his fingers run across the front of his chest while Roadhog’s fingers caress his backside, and shallowly thrusts against the tongue eagerly lapping him. Each lap of his tongue earns Roadhog another shallow thrust, makes him eager to pleasure just as eager as he was to apologize, but the words were incapable of forming-- even if Roadhog hadn’t caught Lúcio’s clit in his mouth, sucking gently while thick fingers worked the tension from Lúcio’s buttocks that the shower had not managed to reach. Each lewd sucking sound is accompanied with muffled, keen moans of gratitude, edging him on to slip a tongue into him now. 

Lúcio’s thighs quiver as the tongue thrusted in and out of him, now he grinds down hard, Roadhog’s hands firm on each cheek as he guides each rut to his tongue and mouth; licking, sucking, thrusting, they devolve into lewd sounds, grunting, and moaning. Soft whispers of, “Mako, more”, and “Mako, please,” and “Mako, I’m sorry,” leave his lips quick enough that they could be brushed off and Roadhog could pretend he had never heard them; but each shuddery, desperate breath has his compelling; more tongue, moving faster, accepting and apologizing with every second he eats him out. 

Lúcio comes on Roadhog’s face with quivering thighs and shaky breaths with heavy, warm hands kneading his ass and a heavy, warm tongue thrusting in and out of him until he’s too sensitive to handle it. His face wet, lips glistening, Roadhog cranes his neck and places a kiss against Lúcio’s overstimulated labia.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a friend on tumblr. Find me @ angrybeardedmen or txghut


End file.
